


no grave can hold my body down (I'll crawl home to her)

by led_zephlin



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anyways, Buried Alive, Car Accidents, Character Death, Character Turned Into Vampire, Crossover, Decapitation, Established Relationship, F/F, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Honeymoon, MOTW SPECIAL BABEY, Mind Control, Swords, Tags May Change, Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning, Vampires, Weird Plot Shit, eventually, there's a PLOT i actually have one woohoo, well ig thats just canon huh, with other rqg specials that is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2020-12-17 04:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21048041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/led_zephlin/pseuds/led_zephlin
Summary: It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to get married, drive off into the sunset, and be happy, normal people for the rest of their lives.None of this was supposed to happen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohallows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohallows/gifts).

> This is a birthday fic for ohallows, which isn't until the 18th but I'm excited and she said I could post it early so TADA!!!  
I'm real excited abt this y'all, it has a whole plot and everything!  
Please keep an eye on the tags bc boy oh boy will they be added ;)  
Thanks for checking in!

You could argue it all starts when Cleo first meets Bette, a college romance that blossoms out of longing looks in a literature class and passionate discussions about Jane Austen ( an appropriate combination, really). You could argue that it starts when they first kiss on Cleo’s couch, a sweet conclusion to an awkward build-up of quiet laughter and shy smiles that ends with breathlessness and a knock on the door (the delivery of the takeout they’d ordered). You could even argue it begins when four years later, when Cleo gets down on one knee in a quiet park and tells Bette that there isn’t anyone else she’d rather spend the rest of her life with, that Bette robs her of all sensibilities but this? This feels like the most logical decision she’s ever made.

(Bette says yes, of course.) 

It doesn’t matter what you argue though, because the fact of the matter is that it all really starts on the night after the wedding, when they’re driving up to the quaint little cabin that Bette’s family owns, euphoric and ready to begin what everyone calls the honeymoon.

The moon is silver and whole where it hangs in the sky, and gleams through the trees as two yellow headlights beam out into the darkness, trailing along the pockmarked country road. The lights belong to a rusted but loved Subaru Legacy from the 90s, and inside a light jazz plays.

Bette Jones looks out the window into the inky darkness outside, the silhouette of passing trees all melting into one another, and butterflies whirl about in her stomach as she thinks about what she assumes awaits them.

Her fiance—wife, now, Cleo, glances over at her from the driver’s seat and smiles fondly, more to herself than anything else.

“Excited?” she says softly at the way Bette’s fingers tap on the dashboard in anticipation. A new gold band gleams on her left hand, and Cleo can’t help but think that it looks perfect like that.

Bette smiles back, almost sheepishly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Of course. I’m _ married _now. What’s not to be excited about?”

“Probably my dad finding out that we eloped,” Cleo deadpans, and Bette giggles at that.

“Fair enough; I imagine my mum will be hysterical,” she says.

“We just need to keep them apart to stop them from plotting and we’ll be fine,” Cleo says, and their laughter mingles in the air and drowns out the jazz on the radio.

“No one will be able to find us at the cabin, anyways,” Bette says with a rare, wry smile on her face, “No one uses it these days.”

“Secluded, hm?” 

“One word for it.”

Cleo’s grin fades as she looks back out the windshield and shifts in her seat, suddenly pressing firmly on the brake, and the car rolls to a halt. 

“Something wrong?” Bette follows her gaze and sees what’s stopped them. An old tree, thick and warped, lies across the road, branches and leaves splayed out like a dead spider.

Cleo shifts the car into parking, opening the door with a murmured, “I’ll have a look to see if we can’t get around it,” and this, right here, is the exact moment when it all starts.

“Be careful,” Bette says, and only later will it all seem ironic.

Cleo walks up to the tree, noting the mass of brush at the left side of it. Clear it away, and they might be able to drive around it. Her hand explores the ridges in the trunk’s bark as she migrates to the other side, to the base it’s fallen from. 

Strangely enough, there’s no stump that marks its old location. Perplexed, she kneels down to examine the cleavage of the broken end. The wood there is a pale white ringed in lighter brown, not jagged and rough like an old thing given way to rot, but smooth, unnaturally so. Flawless, even, Cleo thinks, as she runs her brown fingers over the unbroken flesh of the tree. 

Like it’s been cut. 

It’s that revelation that begins the stirring of trepidation in her, but alas, there’s already something in motion here.

The sound of the car door opening stirs her, and Bette stands, halfway leaning out of her seat. “Everything alright, love?” she calls. 

Even with Bette’s eyes on her, Cleo feels something raise the hairs on the back of her neck, like she’s being watched. 

“Get back in the car,” she says, her hands closing around a nearby fallen branch. Out of the corner of her eye, the shadows shift, and Bette screams her name.

Cleo reacts on instinct, lashing out with the branch and it connects with something with such force that it cracks. An enraged hiss comes from the ground, but she doesn't stop to see what it is. Instead, she turns on her heel and bolts for the car. 

"Get back in the car!" she repeats, shouting it this time, skidding to a stop by the Legacy and diving in. She jerks the door closed just as something slams into the side of it, denting it. 

Not something, she realizes as she fumbles with the gears.

Someone.

A person with eyes so black the pupils swallow up the whites and long nails like razors claws at the window on the other side of the glass, scratching ragged lines with a screech. They snarl at her with teeth that are inhumanly sharp. A similar person throws themself onto the hood of the car, and when Bette whimpers, Cleo slams on the gas as hard as she can. The tires wail as she swerves around in a wide arc and the figure on the window shrieks as it's thrown off. The one on the hood scrabbles for purchase but tumbles off as well and Cleo pummels the gas again. The tires squeal again 

"What the hell was that?" Bette cries as Cleo grips the wheel with white knuckles. 

"I don't know, but I don't think I want to," Cleo says, heart pounding. “Jesus—”

“Seatbelts,” Bette mutters distressedly, clicking hers back into place before reaching for Cleo’s. When it’s secure, she tries to settle back in her seat.

“Did you see their eyes?” she gasps. “They looked like people but they couldn’t be—”

“I don’t care what they are,” Cleo replies. “I just want to get out of here.”

Bette peers out of the window as they speed away, searching into the darkness for signs of danger. 

"I think they're gone," she says finally. "But what—"

There’s a loud crack like a gunshot, and the car lurches as the back tires blow out (or become slashed). Cleo tries to jerk the wheel, but it’s no use, and the car flips. 

There’s an awful screaming and groaning as metal twists and crumples, and Cleo feels her heart close to bursting from her throat just as everything goes black.

* * *

She comes to what feels like only a few moments later with a gasp and a splitting headache. The world is upside down and as it comes back into focus she realizes it’s because she’s still strapped into her seat, thanks to—

_ Bette. _

Fuck.

Cleo turns to see a curtain of blond hair hanging in wisps and her heart stutters with a different kind of fear. 

“Bette,” she croaks, reaching over to her wife, “Bette, are you okay?” 

There’s no answer for a terrifying moment, but then she stirs with a low moan. “C—Cleo?”

“I’m here, love.” There’s a pain in Cleo’s wrist as she reaches over, but that doesn’t stop her from grasping Bette’s hand. “Are you hurt?”

Bette takes a shaky breath. “I—I’m not sure. I don’t think so but—but everything aches—” A sob catches in her throat and Cleo squeezes her hand tighter.

“Easy, love, it’s alright.” Her other hand finds the buckle of her own seatbelt and she clicks it. She falls to the ground (roof of the car, now) with a grunt.

“Are those things still out there?” Bette asks, and it’s with a sudden chill that Cleo remembers their pursuers.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But we need to get out of here. Here—” Her hand finds Bette’s seatbelt, and there’s a crunching of glass when Cleo catches her.

A high-pitched laughter rents the air outside the car and Bette goes very still, her breath catching. 

“Think they’re dead?” says one voice.

“I hope not,” says another. “I prefer it fresh.”

“Probably wasted most of it,” says a disappointed third, “That was a nasty crash.” 

A sound of disgust comes from the second voice, just outside the wreck of the Legacy. “Yeah, probably.” A foot kicks at the wrought metal, and Bette flinches. 

It’s silent then, for what feels like forever, and during it the footsteps seem to fade away.

A few moments later, Bette uses the barest of a whisper as she says, “Are they gone?”

Cleo barely has time to take a breath to answer before the remnants of the windshield shatter. 

A clawed hand reaches in and Bette screams as she’s torn from Cleo’s arms with an unnatural force. Cleo shrieks and tries to grab her hands as Bette is ripped from her, but the pain in her wrist is too much to bear and she loses her grip.

A cheering comes from outside as Bette is dragged out into the moonlight, sobbing and thrashing in her assailant’s hold. 

“Malphus will want that soon,” says the first voice gleefully over Bette’s screams, “Go ahead and take her back. I’ll get the other one.”

Cleo shrinks back into the car, half-choked with terror and tears. She fumbles desperately with the door as the sound of Bette’s cries trail off, but it’s stuck firmly in the dirt. There’s only one way out: through the windshield, and that feels like suicide. 

Footsteps draw near, and she finally gives up escape and seizes the crowbar that’s tucked under her seat just as the metal of the car creaks. She hefts it in her hand, ready to strike, when a rumbling sound echoes behind her. A car, she realizes, her heart thudding in her chest. A savior, an accomplice, or a fellow victim?

The first of the three, she prays as a disgruntled muttering comes from outside, and she waits with bated breath as the new car purrs to a stop and the doors creak as they open.

“Oh, hello!” says a woman’s voice, shrill and jovial, “Do any of you fellows know the laws about hunting in this area? I hear there’s a _ dreadful _ vermin problem.”

The first voice, closest to the car, hisses, _ “Hunter,” _ with such vitriol Cleo can almost picture it spilling between his fanged teeth.

“Do you know, Muriel,” says a man’s voice from the car, equally cheerful, “I think it’s open season!” 

A gunshot cracks and a body falls to the ground just outside of the windshield. 

A cry of rage goes up down the road, and as the gun goes off again, Cleo takes the opportunity to crawl out of the windshield, wincing at the shards of broken glass that get stuck in her hands. The sight that greets her when she finally manages to pull herself from the wreck is startling, to say the least. Four of the creatures who’d hunted her and Bette stand off from a young man and woman. Two others lie on the ground, writhing. Two of the people still standing turn and run, retreating into the woods as the last of them hurtle towards the newcomers. The man is aiming a shotgun at them, prepared to fire as the woman strides forward with a silver sword that gleams in the moonlight. 

“Are you going to let me have some fun now, Julien?” she says. The man simply shoulders his gun and bows overdramatically as if to let her pass. She beams, and surges forward. 

Her blade slices through the air, severing one person’s head before piercing the other’s chest in one swift movement. Her opponent screams as he falls to his knees, twitching as the woman raises her sword again and brings it down on his neck.

“We ought to finish the others off, I suppose,” she says, wiping black blood off of her face. 

Cleo retches at the sight of the decapitated heads, and the woman turns to her as if only noticing her for the first time.

“Oh, look, Julie,” she says, mildly excited, “We saved one!”

Cleo vomits then, and the woman’s nose wrinkles.

“Not much of a thanks,” she sniffs.

Cleo passes out before she can respond.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS this is one of the darker chapters in the fic, please heed the content warnings below:  
CONTENT WARNINGS:  
\- mind control  
-being buried alive  
-physical assault  
-other vampire-related consent issues  
-grief  
-nausea/vomiting

Bette has never thought of herself as much of a fighting person. It’s simply never been in her nature. She’s much more the type to slip away, quiet and unobtrusive, to gently murmur suggestions into others’ ears and pray they take her seriously.

That changes as she’s dragged through the forest by a woman with straggling dark hair and darker eyes, as if she’s only a small child and Bette is merely a ragdoll in tow.

Now, she kicks and screams and scratches, twisting in the hold of someone who barely bats an annoyed eye at her efforts. Maybe later, she’ll be angry, but right now, she is just so, so scared.

“You’re making this very difficult,” grumbles her captor.

“Fuck—you!” Bette half-sobs back, pummeling at the arm around her waist. It doesn’t budge. She can’t help but feel sheer panic. She has to get out, has to find Cleo and keep these things from hurting her. She lashes out again, grabbing the hair of the woman and yanking as hard as she can. 

“Alright, you know what? Screw this—” The woman suddenly flips Bette over and slams her down into the ground. Bette yelps as a stick jabs into her back and is just rearing back to kick out when the woman’s hand wraps around her throat and squeezes so hard that Bette can almost feel her windpipe crack. She chokes and claws at the hand there, and the woman jerks so that Bette is forced to look her in the eye.

“Stop,” she says, a sudden hum to her voice, and her eyes seem to glow red for a moment. Bette tries to struggle more, but her entire body has frozen. Sensing the ceased struggle, the woman carefully lets go and steps back, leaving Bette paralyzed on the ground.

“There we go,” she says, more to herself than anything. “Now get up.”

Bette tries to scramble to her feet and take off running, but instead, she finds herself slowly rising to her feet. She tries to turn and make a run for it, but her limbs don’t move and she stays still. The panic wells up again, terror at no longer being in control of herself. 

“What are you doing?” she demands, her voice shaking. “Why can’t I move?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman says, her voice seeming to hum again, and something soft seems to curl around Bette’s brain. The woman was right. Why worry about this? Why fight back and make it harder? She just needs to be quiet and listen and everything will be—

_ No. _

“Stop it,” she says, close to tears again. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it, please.”

“Don’t resist it,” the woman says. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

“No,” Bette says struggling to break the rigidity in her limbs and the fogginess in her mind, “No, you can’t—” she tries to scream again, but something sticks in her throat and she can’t get the sound out anymore. 

The woman sighs in irritation. “Come along,” she orders, and the underlying hum rings in Bette’s ears. To her horror, her foot raises from the ground and steps towards the woman. The other one lifts, and Bette desperately tries to make it turn away, so that she can flee and leave this behind. Instead, she’s overcome with such a wave of nausea that she dry-retches. 

“Let me go,” she cries as her head begins to pound, making her dizzy. 

“Come along,” the woman says again, her expression set in annoyance, and the nausea comes again.

This time, Bette vomits, body still frozen in place as the sick splatters the ground, and she staggers forward not of her own accord.

The woman sighs again. “This is going to take a while.”

* * *

Cleo wakes to the rumble of an ancient engine, sending vibrations through her jaw and into her brain. Her wrist's pain has faded to a dull ache, and she groggily lifts her head from a peeling leather seat. 

“Wh—” Her voice cracks, and a tutting sound comes from in front of her. 

“I think she’s awake, Julie,” says a vaguely familiar voice, and Cleo blinks, and lets her eyes adjust to the light.

It’s still dark out, and the man and woman who saved her are in the front seats. The man’s slicked back hair is slightly tousled, the woman’s flyaway curls tucked into an elaborate plait. The man pauses in driving for just a moment to look back at Cleo.

“Hello,” he says with a charming smile that feels almost false, “How are you feeling?” 

Terrible, Cleo wants to say, but can’t.

“Where am I?” she says instead.

The man chuckles. “Good question. Even I’m not sure, to be honest.”

“At least a hundred miles from where we picked you up,” the woman interjects, turning in her seat to look at Cleo with a big smile. 

“Who are you? Why—”

“Muriel Cheedlehume, darling,” the woman says. “And the gentleman next to me is Julien Blake.”

“_ Doctor _ Julien Blake,” the man corrects her. “Even if I’m no longer practicing, I worked hard for that doctorate.”

“Practicing a bit, he wrapped up your wrist,” Muriel says. 

Cleo tries to move it, and realizes that both of them are bound.

“Why the hell am I tied up?” she demands, heart pounding. Jesus, she’s going to die after all. “You have to let me go, I need to find—” 

“We just have to make sure you’re human first,” Julien says with an apologetic smile, “And we couldn’t do that while you were asleep, you know.” 

“Human?” Cleo sputters. 

Muriel groans. “Julie, I really hate to do this whole spiel every time, could you—”

“Of course.” Julien’s expression becomes somber, and he pulls the car over to the side of the road. “There’s a very long explanation for all of this,” he says, turning in his seat to face her, “But I don’t think you’re in the mood for that, so I’ll be blunt: 

Monsters are real.” 

* * *

Bette's feet are like lead by the time they reach the barn, a looming structure of thick wood and peeling paint. Her head spins with every step, exhausted from resisting the woman's hold on her mind. 

"Almost there," the woman says, and her voice still hums. "Keep going." 

Bette glares at her, too tired to snap back. It's been what's felt like hours, being jerked along on some invisible chain while her body betrays her. 

Unwillingly, she makes her way towards the barn door. It's cracked halfway open, yellow light spilling out into the dark night. 

There's a scream inside, jolting her to attention, and a body comes flying out into the darkness. It crumples on the ground, and for a terrible moment, Bette wonders if these things got ahold of Cleo, too, before the figure staggers to their feet. 

A shadow emerges in the doorway, thin and tall and dark against the backdrop of light. 

"Coward," the shadow snarls, voice thick with a Southern touch. "Two to four, and you spineless sons of bitches _ ran _?" 

"I'm sorry, Lord Malphus!" cries the figure who had been thrown. They cower in the tall grass as the shadow approaches, "The hunters took us by surprise!"

"I don't want your excuses, Mordechai," the shadow named Malphus hisses, "I'm hungry, and if you couldn't find food, I'll have to settle for you." His fingers become hooked as his nails slide out, sharp claws that glint in the light. 

"No need," calls the woman who captured Bette. The two (men? monsters?) turn towards her, and Bette can't help the chill that goes through her. 

"Lillith!" Mordechai says, elated, "I thought the hunters had gotten you!" 

"I got out in time," the woman answers. "Not that this one made it easy for me." She gestures at Bette, disgusted, "Fought me the whole way through, even while I compelled her." 

"Really?" Malphus drawls. "Bring her into the light, Lillith. I want to see what you've caught." 

Lillith grabs ahold of Bette's arm, dragging her towards the others. Bette tries to struggle, but there's only so much energy left in her. She's thrown down into the dirt at Malphus' feet, and feels sharp nails scratching at the back of her neck as he jerks her head up by the hair. 

She nearly retches at the stench of tobacco and blood on his breath, at the way his black eyes glitter like beetle wings. 

"Interesting. She don't look like much, do she?" Malphus says. 

"You wouldn't know it by the way she fought," Lillith mutters. "That's why I took so long." 

"Lot of fight in her," Malphus muses. "That's always good. Especially since now we're down a few members of the group."

Mordechai shifts. "My lord, do you really think we should add her? It seems—"

"Shut it, boy," Malphus snaps. "If we weren't already in low numbers, I'd have torn you apart the moment you came back empty-handed." 

Mordechai falls silent. Malphus turns his attention back to her, and nods slowly. 

"Yes, I think you'll do just fine. But first-" His eyes darken, "--I'm still hungry."

The grip in her hair tightens, and her whole head is jerked back completely, exposing the line of her throat to the night sky. A snarl comes from Malphus, and then, before she can scream, pain explodes in her neck, white-hot and agonizing. She can feel hot blood dripping from the wounds and down her chest as Malphus feeds. Her lips part in a silent cry, and from the corner of her eye, she sees Lillith slice her own palm open, black blood welling up in the wound. The woman comes close, and presses her bleeding hand against Bette's mouth. It falls onto her tongue, cold and metallic and rotten, and she struggles to move away, but Lillith keeps her in place. The world seems to darken around her, the edges of her vision blurring, and the last thing she sees before the pain overwhelms her with sleep is Lillith's impassive expression: blank as stone.

* * *

Julien waits, as if expecting a reaction, but Cleo just stares at him.

“Monsters are real,” he repeats. “Ghosts too, all of it. That’s what was chasing you.”

“You mean—” Cleo pauses. “That’s what those things were?”

“Vampires, if you want to get technical,” Muriel interjects brightly.

_ “Vampires? _” 

“Yes, darling, vampires,” Muriel says. “But don’t worry, they’re dead now, some of them at least.”

“Some of them got away,” Cleo remembers. “They took my wife, Bette. Did you find her?"

Muriel's sunny smile falters, and she shares a look with Julien. 

"I'm terribly sorry, darling," she replies softly. "If they took her, they were gone by the time we came. We didn't know there was someone else, or else we would have gone looking." 

Cleo swallows, hard. "Can we go back?" she asks weakly. 

Julien's hands shift on the steering wheel. "I'm afraid there won't be anything for us to find," he says. "Those particular creatures tend to make...quick work of those they capture."

"_ Julie _," Muriel admonishes.

"There's no sense in giving her false hope. I don't like it any more than you do, but you know what those things are like." He glances at Cleo in the rearview mirror. "I'm really very sorry for your loss, Miss Jones." 

Cleo would correct him, tell him it's "Mrs. Jones," actually, but it dies on her tongue when she realizes that, well, he's not wrong now. 

"So she's—she's gone," Cleo whispers, feeling sick. 

Muriel clucks her tongue in sympathy and reaches around to pat Cleo's hand. Cleo pulls away, even as the pain in her broken wrist flares up. There’s a silence as Julien starts the car up again and pulls back onto the road. Cleo draws her knees up to her chest, and turns her gaze out the window of the car. The view is an endless stream of rolling trees, just like the impassive woods that the creature took Bette into. 

She has to keep reminding herself that the shadows in the trees are just shadows, but can't help feeling like there's something else there, too.

She can never be sure it's only shadows, ever again.

* * *

When Bette opens her eyes, all she sees is darkness. All she feels is pain, starting at the base of her neck where Malphus bit her, spreading like a starburst crack through her body. Something hard and flat lies under her, and when she shifts, her shoulder hits a short wall next to her. 

She tries to put out her hands, reach out into the darkness, and instead they thud against something solid two inches from her face. 

Something light falls onto her face, and as she tastes the grit of dirt and sand on her tongue, she realizes something awful. 

She's been buried alive. 

Her breathing becomes erratic, terrified as she scrabbles at what feels like thick wood above her, and she realizes, with a start, that the heart that would normally be thudding in her chest rapidfire, is still. 

The revelation scares her more than being buried alive, and when she screams in her place under the earth, it rattles in her ears. 

She claws at the wood again, and this time, her nails sink into it with a terrible splitting sound. She twists her body and wrenches at the planks, carving them open like a chest cavity. Dirt falls into her still-open mouth, and she retches at the way it sticks to the back of her throat. She brings her knees up and smashes through the rest of it, thrashing in the earth around her.

She's still screaming when she drags herself out of the shallow grave that's been dug for her, and the cool air that hits her face is almost enough to knock the wind out of her again. The people, the _ monsters _ who took her, turn from a card game that they've all been playing. 

"Well, there you are. I done told y'all she had it in her," said Malphus, flashing a sharp-toothed grin to the others, "Welcome to the family, little lady."

Bette's still trembling, and glances down at her hands, still covered in dirt and blood. Her nails have turned into long, sharp white blades, like the ones the vampires had when they attacked the car. She spits the dirt out of her mouth, and as her tongue brushes against her teeth, she realizes that all of them are sharper than they were before. 

"What—" Her voice is raw from screaming and fear as she looks back at the creatures, "—did you _ fucking _ do to me?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS  
-grief  
-animal death  
-blood  
-mind control

The drive lasts for hours. Cleo loses track of time, only to be counted in all the numerous trees that flit by in her field of vision. There’s a few times where Muriel or Julien try to engage her in conversation, but she’s rather deaf to it all, so after three or four attempts, they give up, and drive in silence, throwing each other a glance every so often. 

“Do you mind if I turn on the radio, darling?” asks Muriel at some point during the ride. Cleo makes a noncommittal sound, and after a pause to wait for elaboration, Muriel hesitantly clicks on the stereo, and Queen plays through the old speaker of the car. 

Cleo’s only vaguely listening when Julien mumbles something, and Muriel shushes him. _ Later, _it almost sounds like she’s saying. Julien says something else, and Muriel just sighs, and turns in her seat. 

“We’ll stop at the next motel, if that’s alright,” she says, her gentle voice sounding far away. Cleo just nods, and keeps her eyes on the trees. She has to keep watch, now. She can’t ever not keep watch, not anymore.

* * *

The motel is small, almost like a coffin, with two tiny beds to each room and gaudy decor littering the walls, taking up what little space remains. Muriel and Julien get Cleo her own room, connected to theirs through a flimsy door in the wall. 

“I hope you don’t mind, we went ahead and got what we could out of your car,” Muriel says as Julien brings in two heavy suitcases, both a bit torn and stained with mud, “We just wanted you to have your own clothes to change into.” 

“I appreciate it,” Cleo replies, her voice raspy from being quiet for so long. Julien sets the bags down and dusts his hands off, nodding to himself. 

“Would you like something to eat, Miss Jones?” he asks. “There’s no room service, I’m afraid, but I’m sure there’s a takeout place somewhere. I’ve got a real craving for Chinese, myself.”

“Um, I—I’m not hungry right now, thanks,” Cleo says, her eyes drifting to the suitcases he’s just brought in. Her breath catches in her throat as she takes them in: one blue, one red. It’s not Julien’s fault, of course, he couldn’t have known, you see, that the red suitcase belongs—_ belonged _to Bette. She stands suddenly, startling Muriel and Julien. 

“Something wrong, dear?” Muriel says. 

It’s as if Cleo doesn’t hear her, crossing the small room and pulling the suitcase towards her. She doesn’t bother to lift it, just opens it right there on the floor. Sure enough, Bette’s clothes lay inside: the long, flowing skirts she liked to spin in, the oversized jean jackets she embroidered herself; even a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses are safely tucked between rolled-up pairs of lace socks. Cleo’s hands shake, hovering over the contents. 

“Miss Jones?” Julien’s cheery lilt has faded from his voice, he sounds uncertain now as Cleo lifts out a light yellow blouse from the pile within, a birthday present she bought for Bette sometime ago. She brings it to her face, and breathes in. It still smells like her, of course. 

Something about the clothes that Bette loved so much, all here and disconnected from her, hits Cleo like a brick to the chest. She’s gone. Bette’s really gone. 

A choked sob escapes before she can stop it, and behind her, Muriel inhales sharply, cringing at the sound. “Oh, dear,” she murmurs, turning to Julien, “I think we may have gotten the wrong suitcases, Julie.”

He winces at that. “Oh, I—I’m so sorry, Miss Jones, I didn’t mean to—” 

“It’s fine,” Cleo manages to gasp out, taking a deep, shuddering breath as more tears come. “It’s fine, really, I just— fuck—” 

“Let’s give her some privacy, Julie,” says Muriel quietly, putting a hand on his arm. He simply nods, and the two of them make a swift exit, leaving Cleo with her memories and her grief.

* * *

Everything feels cold now, Bette realizes. The air, her own skin, the hard ground underneath her, it all has a damp chill to it now. The chains around her wrists don’t help the matter at all, they just add another layer to the icy cocktail that now seems to come with living, if you could call it that. 

A noise stirs her, and her hackles raise as one of the vampires, Mordecai, she thinks his name is, crouches down in front of her where she’s chained to the post that climbs up into the rafters.

“Here.” He holds out a dead chicken, its neck twisted, the beak open in an interrupted scream. She just looks at him. 

“It’s fresh,” he says. “Bite the neck, you’ll get some blood that way.”

She doesn’t take it from him, so he tosses it at her feet and sits. 

“You need to eat,” Mordecai says, and Bette just glares at him. He sighs. “You can’t stonewall us forever, Blondie.” 

Bette lashes out at him, rattling the chains as her nails sharpen into bone white claws and swipe at the air. Mordecai manages to leap back, but not fast enough, and Bette feels a nasty jolt of satisfaction as a thin black cut opens down the length of the man’s arm. He hisses loudly, clutching the wound. 

“My name,” Bette snarls through too-sharp teeth, “—is Bette.” 

Mordecai growls. “I’ll make you pay for that, you little—”

“Heel, Mordecai.” Malphus’ drawl thickens the tension in the air as he walks up, a cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers. 

“Lord Malphus.” The other man bows his head in deference, still glaring daggers at Bette. 

“Catfight goin’ on, I see?” He glances at the cut along his arm, and he attempts to cover it up. 

“No, sir, I just—”

Malphus clicks his tongue in light disapproval. “You know better than to mess with the fledglings, darlin’.” 

Mordecai flinches at the reprimand. “Yes, my lord. Apologies.”

“S’alright. Looks like you’ve learned your lesson,” Malphus replies, gesturing at his injury before turning to Bette, “And you, little lady, need to learn some manners.”

“_ Manners _ ?” Bette hisses. “What fucking right do _ you _ have to talk to _ me _ about manners, you absolute—” 

The words die on her tongue of their own volition, and she nearly chokes on it. Malphus’s yellowed teeth glint as he grins at her distress. 

“Thank you, Lilith,” he says, turning to look up into the rafters of the barn, “Perks of having a fledgling—you can always make ‘em quiet.” 

Her sire grins from her place amongst the hay, and Bette wants to tear her apart. 

Tears spring to her eyes at the impulse. She doesn’t like this, this anger. It’s not her at all. It makes her feel twisted and dirty, just like these people, these _ things _ do. The same things that made her into one of them. 

No, she reminds herself. Not one of them. She doesn’t care how long it takes for them to get bored of her, she doesn’t care if they kill her, hell, she doesn’t even care if they try and feed from her again. All she cares about is making sure that they never really make her one of them, hungry and murderous and uncaring of the collateral damage. 

She’s sure of it, as they step away and leave her with a dead chicken, that she will never, ever be anything like them.

* * *

An hour or two after the incident with the suitcase, Cleo’s finally able to rise and stagger to the bathroom, staring at her miserable reflection in the mirror. She sighs, and turns the sink on, the knobs squeaking as water gushes from the faucet. 

Dousing her face, she scrubs at the salt on her cheeks, and rubs at her eyes, determined to wipe away the evidence. When she’s done, she turns the water off and reaches for a towel, only to find that there’s nothing hanging from the rack. That’s the problem with shitty motels, of course, they’re so rarely fully stocked. 

With a sigh, she turns from the bathroom and is passing the door between her and the hunters’ rooms when she hears Julien hiss,_ “What are we supposed to do?” _

Quietly padding across the carpet, she finds the door isn’t fully shut, and peeks with one eye through the crack. 

Muriel and Julien stand apart on opposite sides of the small room, each with their own bag on a separate bed. So they aren’t together. 

Interesting, Cleo thinks as Muriel replies, irritatedly, “Just a few days, that’s all I’m saying.” 

"We can't keep her around forever," says Julien. 

"The poor thing just lost her wife, Julie. Even you can't be that heartless."

"I'm—" He cuts himself off, and there's a beat of quiet as he takes a breath. "I'm not saying we just abandon her here. I'm just saying that we of all people aren't equipped to deal with what she's going through right now. It's not like either of us know how to handle complicated emotions." 

“We’ve done alright,” Muriel says, a bit affronted.   
  
“If you say so. Besides, I don’t understand why we’re still here,” he says. “Usually we just leave and never look back. But _ you _ wanted us to stay with her. Why?”   
  
Through the crack in the door, Cleo watches as Muriel runs a hand through her hair with a sigh.   
  
“I—I don’t _ know, _ Julie,” she admits. “I don’t know why, I just—I had a feeling that we should.”   
  
“A feeling? Like one of your—” Julien makes an odd motion with his hands, “—your _ special _ feelings?”   
  
“I’m not sure. I just felt like it was very important that we stick around, help her recover.”   
  
Julien exhales loudly. “Well—fine, then. I’ll trust your gift on this one. But no more than a week. We leave by Tuesday. Deal?” He holds out a hand to Muriel. 

She stares at it for a moment before taking it. “Deal.”  
  
“Alright then.” Julien reaches for his bag, and pulls what looks like a bottle of whiskey out of it. “Now, how about we order that Chinese? I’m absolutely starved.” 

Conversation over, Cleo edges away from the door, and finds herself back in front of Bette’s suitcase, a pink glint catching her eye. She reaches in and pulled out Bette’s heart-shaped sunglasses, the ones Bette never went on vacation about. 

She unfolds the arms and looks through them, somewhat enamored with the way everything becomes tinted with pink. Bette did always love to take “rose-colored lenses” literally. 

She lowers them from her eyes, carefully folds them back up, and places them in her shirt pocket. She might have lost Bette, but these aren’t going anywhere.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER  
\- angst  
-grief  
-vampire turning  
-death  
-concerning alcohol use  
\- brief mentions of self starvation

Bette doesn’t think she needs to sleep anymore, but starving herself has proved to make her rather lethargic, lying amongst the hay near the pole she’s still chained to. The other vampires, maybe five of them or so, have grown tired of her refusal, and seem to be waiting the stubbornness out. 

“At least this means Lilith can keep her in line,” she hears one of them mutter at some point during a card game. “Not a full vamp until she drinks human blood, so she’s still vulnerable to compulsion.”

“She’ll break,” says the other one. “They always do. The hunger always gets to them.”

_ No _ , Bette vows silently.  _ Not me _ .

A scream sounds in the distance far off, and Malphus raises his head from his place as the poker dealer. 

“Sounds like dinner,” he says with a yellowed grin, and a jubilant hiss goes up among them. They abandon the cards and all rise as Lilith and Mordechai drag two young men into the barn. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Malphus laughs at the bounty before him. “You’ve brought a hell of a feast for us.” 

Mordechai beams, though Bette notices a gash along his cheekbone at the same time Malphus does. “One of ‘em do that to you, son?” 

Mordechai’s smile falters, and he scowls. “This one,” he says, shaking the blond man he’s holding like a ragdoll, who yelps, “I guess his ring was made of silver.” His fangs gleam in the low light. “Can I make him pay, my lord?” 

“Don’t you dare fucking touch him,” the other victim hisses in Lilith’s grasp. His eyes and hair are dark and wild, and he looks ready to tear them apart. 

The blond man whimpers. “Randall, please, don’t make them angry.”

“Randall, hm?” Malphus chuckles. “That’s mighty precious.” He looks between the two of them thoughtfully, tapping a tobacco-stained finger against his lips. 

Silence falls as he considers, and the other vampires press in, waiting to hear his verdict. 

“We’re still low in numbers,” he says finally, “but we haven’t eaten anything substantial in a while. A lucky hunt like this, I say we completely drain one, turn the other.”

The murmured agreement that follows sends chills through Bette. Is this the deliberation that would have faced her and Cleo had they both been caught? Would she have stayed dead instead of coming back, and left Cleo to this undead hell? The thought makes her sick, as it does for the two young men in front of her. 

“Who will we drain, my lord?” Lilith asks. Malphus paces between the two choices.

“I think we’d have a hard time with this one,” he says, gesturing at the one named Randall. “No obedience there. I only have the patience for one unruly fledgling. The other one though—” He steps forward and runs a light finger over the gash on Mordechai’s face. “Enough fight in him, I think. But easier to subdue.” 

Lilith smirks and nods, glancing Bette’s way, and the contempt in her gaze stings more than it should. 

“Bring your quarry forward, Lilith,” Malphus orders, and she complies, dragging Randall across the floor of the barn as he twists and kicks in her grasp the same way Bette did.

"No! Please, don't hurt him!" the blonde man cries, struggling weakly against Mordechai's hold, "Take me, not him! Please—" 

Malphus’ eyes glow red for a moment, and the man chokes on his words, whimpering as he tries to speak, the compulsion forcing him to be quiet. 

“It’s going to be okay, Leo,” Randall says to him, a sudden softness in his features even as the other vampires begin to surround him, “It’s going to be okay.”

Bette has to look away when Malphus waves his hand and the other vampires descend, but she can’t shut out the screams of pain and loss the way she wants to. She can’t watch as Mordechai turns the man named Leonardo, or as they stuff his body into a flimsy coffin and bury it. To watch would feel like compliance, up until the moment he manages to break free and claws his way out of the dirt several hours later, gasping and sobbing.

Now, while Bette and Leonardo get acquainted, let’s check in on our other protagonists, shall we?

* * *

The past few days have passed rather awkwardly, if Cleo’s honest. Muriel and Julien still seem to be unaware that she overheard them discussing her usefulness, and the initial shock of the circumstances of their meeting seems to have worn off. Now, they exchange wary greetings in the mornings, occasional offers of food, and the odd time that Julien takes too long in the bathroom and Muriel has to respectfully request access to Cleo’s.

It’s all very strange, Cleo thinks, when she glances through the open door connecting their rooms and sees Muriel polishing her sword, or Julien checking the amount of ammo in his shotgun. It’s strange to think that these two people, through whatever circumstances, have come together to fight a war no one else seems to know exists. There’s a thanklessness to their task, she notices, but also something rather alluring. 

Their certainty. This firm, resigned sureness in what they’re doing and how they do it. The simplicity of it. They find monsters, and they kill them. 

Cleo desperately wants to be that certain of something. 

It crosses her mind again as she sits outside of the motel room, in one of two hard little rocking chairs on the creaky porch. The sun is setting just behind the trees, and there’s a sort of warm glow to everything, the kind that makes you feel calm and almost safe. 

The door to the other room opens, and Julien steps out with a large bottle of alcohol. He seems to carry it around like a child would a blanket. He catches sight of Cleo, and pauses for a moment, grip tightening on the whiskey in his hand. 

“Can I—er...can I join you?” he says, gesturing to the empty seat next to Cleo. She nods, and he sits down with a grunt.    
  
“Nice weather,” he offers feebly in an attempt to make conversation. 

“It is,” she replies. 

“Drink?” asks Julien, holding out the bottle to her, “It’s whiskey. Not the good kind, I’m afraid, Muriel likes to make sure our budget goes towards useful things like gas and ammunition.” 

Cleo stares at the mostly full bottle for a moment before taking it from him. With the week she’s had so far? Yeah, she could use a drink. 

The liquor burns in a way that almost feels comforting, and she holds onto it for a second before swallowing. “You guys have a budget?” she asks, handing the bottle back to him. 

He laughs wryly and takes a swig himself. “Yes. Muriel comes from old, old money, and as the only heir, well...we’ve got quite a bit to spare. She’s a stingy one, though. We’re rather different that way.”

“She’s rich?” Cleo frowns. “What the hell are you doing driving around and staying in crappy motels, then?” 

Julien stares at the bottle in his hands before taking another gulp from it. “Bit of a long story.” 

The edge in his voice hangs in the air for a moment, and the silence between them stretches. Cleo waits.   
  
“I—I know what you’re going through, Miss Jones,” he says finally, passing the bottle to her. She drinks as he continues. “I know what it’s like to lose the person you love like that, to monsters, to not have any hope or even—even a body to bury. I know what that’s like.” 

The sunset seems to gleam from the wetness in his eyes, and his hands shake even as he keeps them folded in his lap. He seems almost grateful when Cleo gives him back the whiskey. 

“It, er, it makes you feel so—” He grasps for words, lost.

“Empty,” she says softly. 

He sighs. “Yes. Empty.” He lifts the bottle to examine the way the sun lights up the liquor within before drinking again.   
  


“What was his name?” she asks. 

“Herbert,” he answers, staring into the sunset. “Muriel and I called him Herbie. He was her brother, see, and my—my dearest friend.” 

Muriel’s brother. Christ. 

“It’s alright, you know. It’s been what, five years now? But I just—well. Our lives sort of fell apart after it. Lost him to a vampire too, one of the solitary ones. Camping trip that he dragged us along on, if you can believe that. One minute we were teasing him about being obsessed with the fireflies and the next—well, it tore him apart. Must have been starving, I suppose. Between me and Muriel, we were able to kill it but…we couldn’t save Herbie.” 

The tears are open now, shining on Julien’s face in the light of the setting sun. 

“I have— _ so _ many regrets about that night, Miss Jones,” he whispers. “The teasing, the complaining I did beforehand, how I never got to tell him I—well. The past is the past.” 

He wipes at his face hurriedly.    
  


“I don’t mean to saddle you with my past. I just…Muriel and I want you to know you’re not the only one. It’s a hard and terrible thing, and I wish I had advice on how to make it better, but I was never very good at the psychological side of being a doctor.” 

Cleo nods, quiet as she takes in the information. 

“I, er, should get back inside,” Julien says, standing up. He takes another long, long drink and sets the bottle down by Cleo’s feet. “Finish that off, if you like. We can always get more.”

He turns to leave, and Cleo has a sudden impulse.

“Julien?” she says softly, turning in her chair. 

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?” 

He blinks, but nods.

“Does it...does it help? Hunting monsters and all?”

He’s quiet for a very long time. 

“Honestly?” he says finally. “For me, yes.” 

With that answer, she lets him leave, alone with her own thoughts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment/kudos pls it keeps me going <3


	5. Chapter 5

Bette has always been the bleeding-heart sort of person, and has let a fair amount of people cry on her shoulder, but even with all that experience, she isn’t sure what to do with the man lying next to her. 

Since his turning, the newest victim of Malphus’ pack hasn’t moved from where he’s been chained amongst the hay. His bonds intertwine briefly with Bette’s, and she glances over at him where he stares blankly into space, curled into something close to the fetal position. The marks of Mordechai’s bite have scarred over inhumanly fast, but still stand out, red and prominent against his pale skin. The sight of them makes her run her fingers over the raised skin of her own bite scars.

“How do you feel?” says Bette softly to the form next to her. It stirs, and a head of blonde hair rises, pieces of hay stuck in it.

“Terrible,” the new fledgling croaks. “I’m cold.” 

“Yes, that’ll be normal, I think,” she says. “Your name...Leo, yes—?”

“Leonardo,” he corrects. “Only Randall calls me—” His face crumples at the mention of the other victim. 

“I’m so sorry,” Bette says, and the grave sincerity in her voice makes him burst into tears.

"I can still smell it, the blood," Leonardo chokes out, newly born fangs glinting as he weeps. "Oh, god, I can still smell it, O-negative—" A guttural sound makes its way out of him as he curls deeper into himself, and god, Bette's heart aches for him. 

“Where did they take him?” he whispers. “Where is he?” 

Bette hesitates, unsure of whether to tell him how she saw them drag Randall’s corpse away. “I—I don’t know, I’m sorry.” 

Leonardo sags back into the hay. 

“What did they do to me?” he asks, his voice cracking, “I don’t feel like myself.”

Bette reaches out to pull the hay from his hair, and he flinches at the touch, softening as he realizes Bette means no harm. 

“Same thing they did to me,” she says hollowly. “I think—I think they made us like them.” 

Leonardo whimpers at that. “Like them? With the claws and the—” He pauses, horrified as he raises a hand to his mouth and feels the fangs there. Bette can only nod. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he says to himself. “What do we do?” 

“I’ve been trying to figure that out myself,” she replies. “We won’t be fully like them until we drink human blood, but I’m never going to do that.” 

“Human blood,” he repeats. “Like Randall.” His lower lip quivers.    
  


“Yes,” Bette says. “They’ve been trying to give me animal blood for the last week, but I won’t drink it.”   
  
“Really?” Leonardo looks at her admiringly. “That’s impressive of you.”   
  
“I won’t be like them,” Bette says. “I won’t.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” 

Bette looks down at her hands, suddenly ashamed. “I am,” she admits quietly. He pats her hand in sympathy, then drops his voice to a whisper.

“Do you think we could run away from here?” 

Bette looks over at the rest of the pack, going about their duties. They could almost be normal people, but she knows the truth.

“Maybe. Our sires have control over us, though. We’d have to get rid of them or try it when they’re not around.” 

“Sires? You mean—” 

“The ones who made us drink their blood,” she agrees. “Lilith was mine, the woman with the dark hair. Mordechai was yours.”

“The one who took me.” Leonardo’s face darkens. 

“And Randall.” He looks at her, surprised. 

“The woman who took him? You mean she—”   
  
“She took me, too. And turned me.” Bette glares over at Lilith, who seems to be busy playing a card game. 

Leonardo’s nails turn into claws. “We’ll make them pay,” he promises her, and she nods. 

“So,” he says, keeping his eyes on the other vampires, “We need to make a plan. Make them think we’ll go along with all of this.” 

She’s about to respond when Mordechai approaches them, another dead chicken hanging from his fist. Bette shifts so that she’s inbetween him and Leonardo. “You still gonna be stubborn, Blondie?” He pauses, then laughs. “You’re both blonde, I can’t call you that anymore, huh?”    
  


He tosses the dead chicken at her feet. 

“You can call me by my name,” she says. “Bette.” 

“Boring,” Mordechai sighs. “So, you gonna eat or are you gonna be a bitch again?” 

Bette glances back at Leonardo, and a silent agreement passes between them. The vampires need to think the two of them are finally submitting to their fate. Certain lines would need to be crossed, and old values would have to be bent. 

She picks up the chicken, and Mordechai raises an eyebrow. The hunger burns in her throat and her stomach, and she can smell the blood still inside the animal. Keeping eye contact with Mordechai, she bites into it, and pretends it’s him. 

She’s almost overwhelmed by the warmth of the chicken blood, and the sweet rush of relief that her body produces at finally obtaining sustenance. She hates herself for how good it feels, the strength that fills her body at the bitter taste. Through the haze, she sees Mordechai’s triumphant grin, and her jaw clenches, crushing the bones in the chicken’s neck.    
  
_ You haven’t won, _ she thinks.  _ You can think it all you want, but I know the truth _ .

This is just something she has to do, something that needs to be done if she wants to see Cleo again. 

She holds onto that last thought as she gives into the feeding.

_ For Cleo, for Cleo, for Cleo.  _

///

It takes a few minutes before Cleo can get up the courage to do it, to knock firmly on the door to Muriel and Julien’s door.

“Come in,” Muriel calls, and Cleo turns the knob, heart thudding in her chest.

Muriel and Julien are packed, presumably ready to leave. The week is up, and soon the hunters will be on their way. 

“Everything alright, dear?” Muriel asks with a sweet smile.

“Yeah,” Cleo says. “I just...I wanted to ask you and Julien something.”

At the sound of his name, the doctor’s head perks up. “Yes?” 

Cleo shoves her hands into her pockets as the two hunters look at her.

“I…I want to go with you,” she says after a moment of silence. “Not just home and everything, but—with you. As a hunter. I—” She takes a deep breath. “I want you to teach me how to hunt monsters.”

The smile has fallen from Muriel’s face completely. Julien’s back has straightened, and they both look at her uneasily. 

“You don’t have to keep me around forever,” she goes on. “Just teach me enough that I can go solo and I’ll do it.”

“Working alone is dangerous,” Julien says. It’s not a “No,” and Cleo clings to it.

“Not much of a choice, is there?” she says. “I just—I had my whole life planned out with Bette, and I—I don’t know what to do now that she’s not here, but I need to do  _ something. _ ” 

"I never wanted any of this, either, darling," Muriel says, rising from her seat, "I used to be an artist, not a hunter. I worked in oils instead of blades and monsters." She fixes Cleo with a steady look. "It's very hard right now, but there's still time for you. You could move on, build a new life—"

"No," Cleo says. "Bette was my life. I can't—I can't move on and not do something, not when I know what's out there now." Her nails worry at the skin of her palms. "Not when this could happen to someone else and I could stop it." She catches Julien’s eye and he looks back more kindly than he has the entire time she’s known him. “Please. I can’t go through that again.” 

Muriel gazes at her sadly, but with a quiet understanding unique to the three of them. She exchanges a glance with Julien, who simply nods. 

"Very well," she says after a deep sigh. Her bright smile returns as she takes Cleo's hands in hers. "It'll be nice to have another girl around, anyway." 

Cleo relaxes with a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I promise I’ll pull my weight.”

  
  
“I know you will, dear,” Muriel says. She takes Cleo’s face in her hands and presses a quick kiss to her forehead. “Now pack your things. We leave in an hour.”

Cleo nods and turns to leave the room, with a steady feeling that she’s finally going to be able to navigate this uncharted territory. 

Now this, dear readers, is where things get really interesting. Stay tuned, won’t you? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment/kudos, please!


End file.
